


dark spectres

by sithanakin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: 14th Century, 15th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Renaissance, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Early Renaissance, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Historical, Middle Ages, Political Alliances, Renaissance Era, Slow Burn, Welsh mythology - Freeform, more tags and characters will be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithanakin/pseuds/sithanakin
Summary: The threat of war is on the verge of eclipsing the peaceful kingdom of Naboo. As their queen, Padmé must search for some form of protection for her homeland and people.She hopes to invoke an ancient alliance, one that predates the Amidala dynasty by hundreds of years, with the mysterious and malevolent realm of Mustafar.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 25
Kudos: 44





	1. hope

**Author's Note:**

> this is something i am going to write in my downtime between work and finishing desideratum.
> 
> i'm a historian, so i will always do my best to make this as historically accurate as possible! however, this fic takes place at an unspecified date and in fictional lands. (though, it is somewhere around 1400-1550, at the shift from the middle ages to the renaissance). if you have any questions, feel free to ask them, i'll always answer.
> 
> i hope you enjoy this fic!

Footsteps tread lightly through the undergrowth. There are five of them, but their paces barely make a sound over the howling wind that whistles through the creaking branches of trees. Yellow and red leaves that are blown from above are cast in grey, joining those on the ground which are surely brown but appear almost black in the moonlight. It’s a foreboding autumnal night. 

The screech of a young barn owl has Padmé drawing the hooded cloak over her shoulders more tightly together in her hands. Each shrill sound makes her think of tales she heard in her youth: of stories about a hag in the mist, of how her shrill cries warn you of your death as she lurks beside you, unseen and terrifying. And she can feel it in the movements of those around her, equally as unsettled by the darkness of the night and the nearness of the witching hour.

They make haste, wordlessly quickening their steps, uncaring of how their feet ache and bleed in their shoes. 

A vision of safety spurs them on; banquet halls laden with fresh, unsalted meats and honeyed delights, fires crackling and popping as they burn through the night, and clothes as silken and delicate as the hide of a rabbit’s kit. There is little else to think of; little more to hope for. 

Their movements through this unforgiving forest rely on an unwritten and ancient pledge. The protection of everything Padmé knows hinges a promise made long before her birth, many centuries ago when long-forgotten trading routes sprawled throughout the lands. She is seeking sanctuary in this unknown realm of Mustafar. A place she does not know. With a people she has never met. Most petrifyingly: at the mercy of a shadowy monarch and his heir, who she only knows through stories imbued with terror from the mouths of merchants. She does not know what she will find there, but she implores for fate to shine brightly upon her.

She holds onto a necklace bestowed upon her by her mother, seeking the comfort from it, as she recalls to herself those tales of an army so brutal and relentless that entire kingdoms fall to their feet within a day. The kingdom of Mustafar hangs like a spectre over the world she knows, distant but nightmare-inducing all the same. 

A hand catches on her sleeve, pulling her to a soundless stop, and she almost lurches into the dark body of a tree. The hand tugs at her sleeve, gaining her attention to look in the direction of where there is a glimmering light flickering in the distance. It’s a small flame. A torch hangs on the outer walls of a city, and Padmé hopes to a God above and the spirits in the forest that they have found where they hope to meet saviours.

They step towards the light, moving just as quietly about as they had been before. If they make too much sound before reaching the gates, they’ll be accused of mounting an attack, of sneaking into the city to infiltrate it. They cut across when they come to just before where the forest thins to woodland, looping around stumps of trees that have been cut down so long ago that they sprout life from their age rings.

A road would hand them a lifeline, something for them to be seen on and to help their bloodied feet. 

The undergrowth has been kind to offer them shelter from the most monstrous gusts of wind and keep them from the sights of bandits and soldiers alike. But, its payment has been in the suffering of their ankles, heels, and toes. Silk fashioned around the skeleton of a shoe departs quickly from softness to something as sharp as a knife, when worn for hours upon hours to traverse through the swathes of moorland and forests. It has left them in a state beyond pain, well into numbness and blistered, broken flesh.

It is a small gripe to bear, though. In comparison to the threat of her homeland, one that had them escaping cloaked and desperate into the evening sunset. That had been over nine sunrises ago, and she can only hope that the city of Theed has not been sieged already.

When it comes, the road is a welcome change. It is a path so well-worn that it is almost smooth. It is dry, unlike the ground cover that clings to moisture like each water droplet is a pearl to be treasured. Padmé longs to remove her shoes, to carry them up to this city’s gates in her hands, and let her feet be free of the material that cuts them.

Still, they do not stop with the change in terrain. Instead, they continue on with yet more urgency than they had before. The flames that glint from the towering walls sit like feline eyes to watch them approach, as if seeing them and following their movements, but drawing them in like the moths that are surely fluttering around them. Padmé keeps her eyes firmly on them, even as the city walls loom darkly over her and her handmaidens.

They come to a natural slow as the number of smallholdings that flank the road grow, not wanting to disturb the people sleeping in their dwellings. Livestock, when not asleep, grumble quietly, and a dog whines off in the distance. 

There is something about the way the city walls loom over these homes, blocking even the moon from where it hangs up in the sky, and casting these homes in a darkness very much like the thick foliage of dense, evergreen forests. It's pitch blackness, the world only lit by the stars that can be seen through partings in the clouds, that covers everything in a cold grip. Even those warm, glinting orbs of the fiery torches cast menacingly on stone walls. They no longer look rounded and inviting, but slitted and terrifying, slowly being extinguished as they come to the end of their lives as guiding lights.

The roadway leads to a foreboding gate, and Padmé’s nerves grow as they near what will certainly be a closed gate and cluster of soldiers prepared to slaughter them for the safety of their city and what lies within the walls.

“My Queen, perhaps Sabé should lead… For your safety.” All of the women are cloaked and hooded, but Padmé knows it’s Eirtaé who spoke. She could pinpoint the differences in their voices, even if she was to cover her ears with her palms. They have been in her life since before her tenth summer, and she knows these women just as well as she knows herself. 

“I do not want our first interaction with this kingdom to be a deception,” Padmé informs, drawing down her hood, prompting the others to follow in kind. “If we are seeking their aid, we must be truly open.”

There’s an apprehension in the air from Padmé’s handmaidens, but they do not protest. They do not follow her blindly, but they do so with faith and trust. Padmé has thought of her arrival and how to present herself, right from the moment she entertained this idea of seeking aid from a land draped in a malevolent aura. She knows she must be the one to plead her case to the guards that must surely be fulfilling their duties of protecting the city gate. 

As they draw closer, however, they come to find that the gate has not been drawn up for the night, leaving the city open and defenceless. Padmé glances to her handmaidens and can see their concern and shock cast on their faces, even in such limited light.

“Your Majesty,” a voice calls, deep and wholly unfamiliar. “This way.”

A small cluster of soldiers, all with similar faces and features approach, immediately surrounding Padmé and her handmaidens in a guarding formation. She has not needed to announce herself or present her case, they have assumed her status and are bidding her entry to the city with such little scrutiny. 

“I must urge you to move faster, Queen of Naboo,” one of the soldiers, with a voice almost identical to that of the first’s. “The gate must be drawn before the moon has completely risen.”

“I do not understand,” she utters, bewildered with the hairs on the back of her neck prickling as they rise to stand up. “How do you know who I am?”

One of the guards turns to her, with his eyes almost black as they enter the glowing hallways of this fortress of a city wall. She watches his mouth as he speaks, seeing how his teeth glint with the light of the lantern he holds. It only serves to make his next phrase all the more terrifying. 

“Your arrival has been foretold.”


	2. queens and emperors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Padmé meets Emperor Palpatine and Lord Vader.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference:
> 
>  _a trencher:_   
> the precursor to the plate, it was originally a stale round of bread which acted like a plate (which was then eaten or given to the poor as an act of charity), then they slowly became wooden in the 1500s. I will be using the wooden ones in this fic. 
> 
> _the comment about forks:_   
> they also only became widely used in europe in the 1500s (before this, spoons, knives, and scooping devices made of bread were used in europe) - they were first used by nobility then filtered down into general use, so this comment is to reflect that. people would also often take their own cutlery, as things like forks were so limited to nobility. 
> 
> _the dessert:_   
> the one i decided to go with is a flaune of almayne (which roughly translates to ‘a cake of germany’, from middle english to modern day english), as it’s something i have tried (and didn’t really like...). _[but there’s a link to a recipe/photo here.](http://medievalcookery.com/recipes/flaune.html)_
> 
>  _Dôn:_ The welsh goddess of heavens, air, moon, and sea. The Mother goddess of Welsh pagan mythology!

Padmé fronts her cluster of handmaidens, as if to stand as a protective shield for them against whatever is to come. Even though they are surrounded by partially armoured and armed soldiers. She keeps her chin high, not even grimacing as her shoes dig in deeper to her sore feet, and she knows her handmaidens will be doing the same. Their training in hostile etiquette and remaining resilient is almost identical. They have prepared for these moments of hiding physical pain, to not show any weaknesses, but it grows all the more difficult to maintain as they cross large courtyards and cross bridges within this city. 

Over half a bell passes before they even come to monstrously large doors, which boom and creak as they’re opened to give them passage. 

The hallway is both bright and swallowed in darkness. Light dances on the walls from a myriad of candles, lanterns, open-flame torches, and Padmé knows the shadows on her face must dance and dissolve with each passing step she takes. They continue on, moving in through the bowels of what must be the largest building she has ever stepped into.

They pass through more rooms and corridors, almost endlessly, and Padmé can only imagine the feat of both conceiving and building this castle. The ability to create such vastness without wind rattling through every open space, without losing too much light, or creating any weakness that could crumble at the hands of a siege, is beyond her comprehension. The castle in the Naboo royal city of Theed, the largest in her kingdom, is dwarfed tenfold by this seemingly infinite space. It goes beyond what she had thought could be achieved with stone and binding materials. 

And when they come to a dining room, it brings about the aura of a cathedral, with its lancet and trefoil ceilings. Padmé longs to gaze at the grey, almost black, stonework in wonderment, but she keeps her eyes trained on two seated figures once she locates them at the far end of the table. 

A dozen fireplaces are carved into the walls, roaring with flames like the angry mouths of dragons. And the figures sitting on throne-like chairs are cast in sinister shadows, as they approach. 

Servants hurry into the room, all uniformly dressed and working swiftly to lay the table with a selection of foods that would easily satisfy Padmé and her handmaidens’ hunger. Chairs are drawn out from the table for them, a soldier guiding each woman to take some pre-ordained place at this table.

Padmé is placed beside who she assumes to be the king: a white-haired man with long, wrinkled features and small eyes. She hesitates at the lack of introductions, not entirely comfortable without knowing neither the titles or names of the people she and her handmaidens will share a table with. But, with her assumptions of being placed beside royalty, both her and those who flank her are sure to give a small dip of a curtsy, which is returned with a slight nod of the head from the king figure.

Unmoving, however, is the second person sat at the table. Opposite where she is placed, and beside Dormé, sits a hooded figure, a dark void of a being who is swallowed entirely by cloth and shadow. Not a single flicker of skin can be seen upon their face. Not even when candles are placed between them on the table. All they reveal are hands gloved in leather that sit fisted either side of a wooden trencher. 

Padmé cannot take her eyes from this figure and does not even attempt to for countless minutes. Her attention remains upon him for long after the servants have cleared and all that can be heard is the snapping and crackling of the fires. 

She only alters her gaze when the king hums, moving his hands to join them together, and he smiles cordially at Padmé.

“We had expected you to come earlier, Queen of Naboo,” the king informs her, forgoing introductions, and assuming an almost scolding tone. 

Not knowing what more to say, Padmé utters: “I was not aware that you were anticipating our arrival, as we did not send any prior warning.”

She is pleased when her voice neither shakes nor stutters, and the king’s eyebrow arches but he does not entertain the topic much more.

“I am sure you are famished and parched from your arduous journey, do indulge in this feast and our wines. We also took the liberty of setting out cutlery, as we did not suspect that you would have brought your own forks.” He gestures to the decanters, broths, meats, dried fruits, and breads that line the table, then to the forks, spoons, and knives. “I must remark, however, that it is possibly a blessing that the city is so vast; the preparations were finished once you entered through the city wall.”

“Perhaps,” she responds out of politeness, attempting another smile. Her handmaidens keep their eyes cast downwards, whilst a servant cuts the meats and places foods on their trenchers. She lets the lull in the interaction that her response provides to initiate an introduction, hoping to divulge something about this mysterious land. “Sir, do forgive me, but I believe that I have neglected to present myself.”

“How so?” He asks, needlessly drawing his expression into an overly saccharine smile. 

“I am queen of the kingdom of Naboo, Padmé Amidala of the house of Naberrie, and with me come four of my closest companions and handmaidens,” she gestures to the women in kind, as she speaks their names, “Dormé, Sabé, Eritaé, and Cordé.”

“To which houses do they belong?” The king’s smugness does not ebb as he asks, his meat being piled up onto his trencher, whilst his forefingers come to form a thin triangle, rising up from his entwined fingers in front of his mouth. 

Padmé frowns, “I do not follow, sir.”

“If you hail from the house of Naberrie, where do your delightful handmaidens originate?”

Padmé nods understandingly, even if she is growing frustrated with the lack of reciprocation of her introductions. “In Naboo, we follow a tradition of handmaidens selecting their own names once they are selected for the role, in order to ensure parity between all of the staff. If someone is born to a farmer or a baron, we do not discern between the two when working towards the common goal of Naboo. We do not believe that birth-right titles should bear any weight when serving the kingdom.”

“Apart from your own, yes?” The king asks, waving away a servant pouring the hooded figure a goblet of wine. 

“Yes, apart from the throne itself and the lineages of Lords: our ambassadors, handmaidens, chancellors, and others do not hold inherited titles or roles.”

“How peculiar,” the king mutters to himself, soon taking a sip of his own wine, which Padmé mimics. “Well, I am Emperor Palpatine of the house of Palpatine, and to my right is my heir, Vader of the house of Palpatine, Lord of Mustafar.”

Padmé balks inwardly at the title of Emperor, startled at the weight of the word, and she knows — even with their faces appearing emotionless — that her handmaidens would be very much the same. 

“It is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Emperor Palpatine,” she greets, lifting up a piece of bread and breaking it into smaller pieces, ready to eat it with some of the venison that has been given to her. 

“As it is to make acquaintance with such a beautiful Queen.” He begins to lift his own serving of bread to his mouth. “Now, eat up, we still have something sweet to have afterwards.”

Padmé does as she is told — as do her handmaidens, not wishing to push boundaries with this so-called Emperor. Whilst she picks at things with her fingers and uses her spoon, she cannot help but notice that the hooded figure is not eating, and Emperor Palpatine doesn’t react to it. Not in the way that he does to Sabé when she finishes a round of bread, where he silently gestures with his hand for a servant to bring her another few slices, which happens with such speed and rehearsed precision. 

The plate of the hooded figure remains empty and his goblet must have only been filled to contain a mouthful of wine. 

It is most peculiar. Especially since it is evident to see that the figure is one of large stature, towering over all at the table, even whilst sat. Their size implies an inherent need for continual and plentiful sustenance, and yet they have been given nothing. Neither do they reach for food nor complain at the lack of attention from the servants, they remain silent and unmoving. 

Padmé would have convinced herself that this figure was a statue, if not for the fractional shifting beneath the fabric of their cape as they breathe. 

In fact, she finds it most uncomfortable when Emperor Palpatine calls for the sweeter foods that he promised to be brought forth to them, all whilst this figure has not eaten a single morsel of food. 

For a Lord, and as the Emperor’s heir, they have been ignored by almost everyone in the hall, as if he is a dark spectre that lingers by the Emperor’s side. Rather than a person, they are treated as the embodiment of darkness — not something to be fed, but something that is large, looming and ever-present. 

Glancing at her handmaidens, Padmé understands the questions that float around them all, wondering why this Lord has been invited to the table, if not to eat and drink from the dishes that they have laid out before them. They are all equally as suspicious of the entire interaction, yet everyone else in the room — at least, those whose faces can be discreetly observed — look upon these events, entirely unperturbed. 

Even the most stoic of servants can give the slightest of tells, given where they look and the positions they fall into when they are summoned to the table, or left to almost furnish the room.

This is a wholly mundane and accepted scenario, and Padmé simply cannot fathom it at all. 

Not even when the Emperor speaks, to ask Padmé, in an even and cordial tone, what other traditions and cultural occurrences Naboo observes. She does not wish to seem un-travelled, but much of her life has been spent in the confines of the castle and the wider reaches of Naboo. Despite her best efforts to see as much of neighbouring kingdoms, and further afield, directly ruling Naboo has consumed so much of her life. So much so that travelling beyond her own borders almost always seemed to be out of reach. Especially with the mounting threat of invasion rippling through Naboo and the lands that flank it. 

This mysterious land of Mustafar is the furthest she has been from her homeland, and she knows she must let that slip. 

Instead, she speaks in a narrative she knows to be relatively unique: how her people strive for peace and to bolster the lives of anyone who makes Naboo their home. 

“We are a gentle people,” she begins, her voice soft, aligning with her explanations. “We tend to shy away from battles, and from war… We were not the original inhabitants of our lands, there were people who lived and nurtured the place we call home for a time long before our comprehension. The Gungans — the native people — welcomed our people after we were exiled from our place of origin many hundreds of years ago, and even helped us build a system where my family could maintain rule over our people, and the Gungans have their own traditions and hierarchies. They have taught us how to live on their land and encourage its fruitfulness. Of course, we have our differences, but we have learnt how to symbiotically coexist.” 

“How fascinating,” the Emperor lauds, avoiding using his fork to pick up the last tendrils of meat with his fingers. “Are any of these fine young women one of these Gungans you speak of?”

“No,” Padmé shakes her head, resting her hands either side of her trencher, almost mimicking the dark spectre’s seated pose. “The Gungans are, despite their accepting of my people all that time ago, are a protective people. They are warriors and they do not leave Naboo when it is subject to outside threats…”

The Emperor glances at his heir, as if the figure would turn to meet his gaze, and Padmé is perplexed when the Emperor smiles, as if they have had some silent conversation. “We can only assume that this ‘threat’ is the reason why you have come to Mustafar, having surely walked for days, to come to our gates?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Padmé confirms, keeping to her promise of not hiding behind a veil of lies. “There is a folktale, one that’s imbued with legend, that the kingdom of Mustafar was allied to Naboo, and that there were promises agreed upon that our kingdoms should help each other in their times of need.”

That imperceptible smile, one that Padmé cannot help pin as something snide, remains proudly on the Emperor’s face. “Hmm, we will surely have to search through our archives to know if we have such an agreement… Unless, you have brought a copy of your own?”

“Naboo did not begin to make written notation of our alliances — following Gungan tradition — until my great-grandmother and the leader of the Gungans needed to strike up agreements with merchants to use our mountain passes to travel westwards,” she explains, growing slightly when the Emperor speaks over the end of her last few words to call in for something sweeter to eat. Padmé does not give in, however, she clears her throat and continues on more firmly. “I know it is a lot to ask and I do not have firm dates to run off, but I am here to implore and appeal to your goodwill—”

Holding his hand up to stop her speech, the Emperor informs her that, “Mustafar has always maintained the most pristine of records, right from this city’s conception until now. If a treaty exists, we shall have a record of it. But, given how vast our archives are and that we have no true timespan to begin our searches, I think it best we eat our sweet treats and settle in for the evening.”

The table is not cleared, the large dishes are pushed to the middle by servants. Next, they bring a firm tart-looking dish, one that smells of honey sweetened and spiced apples, and Padmé’s mouth waters. They are all given a healthy cut, apart from Lord Vader, and another servant brings forth a custard, one that Padmé knows shall warm her stomach all the way through. It’s almost impossible not to devour it with her spoon, digging out the soft bready and fruity centre. It melts onto her tongue like a delight when she bites into it, savouring every morsel of it. 

Since the threat of war has encroached in the previous months, Padmé’s twisting and turning stomach has led her to forgo any after-dinner delights. Her anxiety has not quelled for the evening, but the tiresome and arduous nature of their journey has left her stomach neglected, and she convinces herself that she should not look a gift horse in the mouth.

Her dish is emptied quickly, with only the tracks of her spoon left in tiny avenues of custard, dotted with a handful of crumbs. She places her spoon beside her bowl and tucks her hands into her lap, folding her fingertips of her left hand over her right hand, to press into the ridges of some of her rings. 

The handmaidens finish up quickly after her and the Emperor is the last one eating. He eats and moves slowly, taking small bites, sucking each mouthful for a moment before chewing it several times over. There’s a smiling twist to his mouth that drives an unsettling feeling into Padmé’s stomach, as if the Emperor is taunting the Lord to his right. It is something Padmé truly cannot fathom, from the entire interaction. 

When the Emperor does finish, he sits back in his chair and lets out a satisfied sigh, as if all the food has hit every nook of his stomach. He pats his legs once and begins to rise from his seat. Servants scuttle towards him, helping to pull his chair, clear away his cups, bowls and trenchers, and guiding everyone but Lord Vader to follow suit. 

The doors creak and groan as they are opened, and Padmé’s handmaidens instinctively surround her in formation. Soldiers do something similar to the Emperor, but a gap is left between them, giving both the Emperor and Padmé unobstructed views of each other. The Emperor hums to himself before heading towards the now-open doors. He doesn’t even glance around him when he speaks next. He doesn’t even give Lord Vader the thought.

“You have until the end of the next bell, Lord Vader. I hope you eat well,” 

Padmé does not copy the Emperor as he leaves. Instead, she looks over her shoulder, observing how Lord Vader has been left to pick at the leftover scraps, as if he is a kicked and pitiful dog. Lord Vader’s hood bobs, accepting the invitation to eat whilst they ready themselves to leave. He does not rush to eat, but calmly begins to take what is left for his own trencher.

The bell that marks the hour rings out loudly and she can see how the Emperor smiles, as if he knows Lord Vader will obediently follow his instructions. And Padmé is hallowed to see Lord Vader place down his half-empty and barely eaten plate and begin to advance towards them.

A frown etches itself on her mouth. Her stomach is no longer heating her from the inside out. Rather, it fills to the brim with dread.

It dawns on her, by the grace of _Dôn,_ that if this is the Emperor’s generosity to his heir, the hope for Naboo swiftly begins to die.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on twitter, i'm _[@bloodrhodonite](https://twitter.com/bloodrhodonite)_.
> 
> or, _[talk to me on curiouscat!](https://curiouscat.me/sithanakin)_
> 
> this fic also has a playlist, _[you can find it here!](https://music.apple.com/gb/playlist/dark-spectres/pl.u-KVXBBkWtZGxW3W)_


End file.
